Death's Kiss
by Penname wa Silver B
Summary: A masochistic Argonian known only as "the Serpent" is released in Morrowind, after being found guilty of a brutal murder. Why have the officials let such a danger free? The creature can only ask itself... (Chapter Six up.)
1. Oceanic

(A/N: This idea has been stewing in my head for well over a year, and I'm finally weaving it into a full-fledged story. As some of you might have guessed, it is roughly based on an old one-shot I wrote called "Cold Blood". If you like this, whoop-de-doo. If you don't... oh well.

Disclaimer: Astoundingly enough, Morrowind and any other installments in the Elder Scrolls series are property of Bethesda. Not me.)

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**_Death's Kiss - Chapter One - Oceanic._**

**O**cean. Waves. Cold wood. And a mouth full of poison.

These thoughts mesh in my head as I come to. The world is a blur as my eyes open once, twice, blink, close again. My tail twitches with the rythm of the waves that slap against the ship's hull as best it can, thwarted by the ocean's inconsistency. The world is a harsh and unfriendly place, I think as I mull over my dream. I remember from it a female voice, whether of man's like or mer's I cannot say, but it somehow differed from both. The voice was a kind one, assuring me that she would watch over me. The dream was not solely auditory, showing me visions of a parched land with red skies. I was enjoying it, too, until that damned Dunmer cut in.

"Are you alright?" he says again in that gravelly voice of his--it must hurt his soft throat to speak such a way, musn't it? I muse to myself. Good. I hope it hurts a lot for all the pain I'm feeling in every bit of my body right now.

"Get up--" From my spot on the floorboards, I tense as I sense his clumsy body lurching toward mine, obviously bending down to shake me fully awake.

"Go away, Dunmer," I snarl with an irritable tail twitch. "Unless you want that arm flung out the porthole to end up a sea-creature's gut, you'll do well to keep your distance." He backs away in a hurry.

"You're so vicious," he mutters. "This whole trip, you haven't spoken to me but to threaten me."

"Were you not fool enough to flail that fat tongue of yours, mer, you could be spared the threats," I return plainly. Hard as the floor is, and doing nothing to lessen my pain, it is oddly comforting to simply lie here.

"I have a name, you know," he says indignantly.

"Spare me the drama," I snort. "Spit it out, boy."

"Jiub," he informs. "And yours?"

"I am a Serpent," I say. "And you would do well to watch what you say to me, mer... I am no common outlaw, such as yourself. I have killed more of your kind than you would care to count."

"You lie." There is a queasy uncertainty in his voice.

"Believe what you will," I respond, unconcernedly. "Just leave me alone. I am trying to die."

"Good luck with that," he answers dryly. As he turns away and murmurs darkly to himself, I hear the low _clunk, clunk, clunk_ of an approaching guard's boots. I could alert the Dunmer of it, but I have no wish to. As I told him, I'm more concerned with exiting this existence right now.

I'm not really given a choice in the matter, of course, when said guard grabs me by the nape of my scaly neck and hauls me up into a standing position. I do not give him the satisfaction of standing on my own, though, and let my weight depend on his straining arm. Still, I now have a optimum view of his beet-red, bristly human face, moist brown eyes leering. In the background, the navy-skinned, red-eyed, scar-faced dark elf calling himself Jiub stands, leaning to and fro with the ocean's flow.

"Your clothes are gone again, Argonian?!" the guard cries, wrinkling his nose distastefully as he surveys my assortment of self-inflected wounds.

"Would you have your dog prance about in a tunic and breeches, human?" I sigh. "For all that you think of my sort, I'm surprised you would have me do so."

"I've met many Argonians," the guard responds, finally letting me drop to the floor; a triumphant smile passes over my face despite the pain. "But never one as unpleasant as you." His attitude is aloof. I wonder if he would be so arrogant, were he aware that I could easily wrench his arms from their sockets? But alas, no one knows an assassin of my caliber when they see one. They've arrested me for the single murder they are aware I committed, and any simpleton can kill and be caught. By "they", of course, I mean the human guard's higher-ups, who boarded me on this prison ship and set me off to be exiled on a foreign isle of the Morrowind province. I was hoping for an execution, and that they would choose Morrowind is suspicious. I tell myself they're only going to abandon me on Solstheim to freeze to death. That's all it would be, and such is best. A slow demise would be most befitting of me.

My thoughts are broken as the guard lets a bundle of cloth drop on me.

"Clothe yourself, Argonian," he snaps. "We've nearly reached the island, and I don't want you looking the savage you are in front of the officials." So saying, he stomped away and climbed back updeck. With a deep sigh, I roll over, letting the bundled clothes slide off and fall to the floor. Wiping away the blood seeping from a fresher wound on my collarbone, I inspect the clothes critically. Brown pants made small enough to accustom a wood elf and and a not-quite-white shirt woven of thick, itchy fibers. I climb into them reluctantly, my tail easily ripping a gap for itself in the seat of the pants. Much of my yellow-scaled, black-blotched complexion has been covered. I notice then that the guard also gave me a pair of leather shoes. Far too small to fit my large, four-toed feet. Clothed, I lie down and wait.

Scanning my surroundings yet again and disregarding the scarred, bare-chested dark elf in my way, I notice the portholes too small for anything larger than a rat to wriggle out of, and the same crates filled with dried meats ripped from the insides of a beast I have never seen. The crates slide around as the ship sails, and are quite fond of slamming into the elf and I without warning. On cue, the ship jolts to a stop and sends a crate crashing into me. I don't bother getting out of the way, and let it crush me against the ship wall. If the guard wants me on deck, he'll have to come down and heave the crate aside himself.

Which he does, after a fervent bit of swearing upon coming back down and seeing me in such a predicament

"Are you some kind of masochist?!" he grunts, pulling the crate back and yanking me up. This time I stand on my own, albeit with a slouch. I'm done talking; I eyeball him loathingly as he drags me up the steps and onto the deck.

The sun is a shock to my eyes after so long in the ship's deeps, but I welcome this pain as I would any other. The pleasure is gone, however, when I realize we are not in Solstheim.

"What kind of a prank are you pulling?!" I growl, yanking my arm free of his grasp and bolting to the ship's side, smelling the air. "We're in a swamp! Argonians COME from swamps! We love swamps! Why the hell did you bring me here?!"

"This is where they want you," a guard with darker skin than the first explains calmly. "Head on down to the dock and they'll show you to the Census Office." He gestures to a thin plank bridging the edge of the deck with a small dock.

"I don't believe this!" Fuming, I leap over the plank and land smoothly on the dock, glaring at yet another human guard who awaits me. A small hiss escapes my throat, but I say nothing more as he grabs my elbow and leads me down to the dock to a small courtyard enclosed by cobblestone walls I could easily scale, had I the will to. Rather than a back wall, there is a building of ramshackle material. The guard lets me go and I pass inside, cheering myself with the thought that some form of torture must lie within.

There is another guard inside, as well as a human with no armor, but a thin robe draped over his aged, weakly self. Despite his obvious physical inferiority, his facial expression indicates a high place in local politics and a bloated ego to accompany it. I hear a clinking sound behind me, tilting my head just enough to see the guard has locked the door through which I came. With a low growl to show that I'd really rather not be here, I return my attention to the old human in front of me. He says some things, but I do not respect him enough to listen. Instead, my head pivots as I look about the room, noticing a bookcase with no books, only valuable silverware and the like. There are fine carpets on the floors, to my right is a low table, and to my left is another door. My eyes narrow as I notice a chest by which the guard stands. It is heavy, imprinted with the words "Evidence". Evidence of my crime. No doubt my possessions are in there even now. I curl my lip as the weakly man slaps me to garner my attention. His lips word, more words come out, and begrudgingly I begin to listen.

"See here," he says primly. "I am Socucius Ergalla. I'll need some information from you."

"I am a book open before you, sire," I smile sarcastically. "What would you have of me?"

"They tell me you were born under a certain sign," he says, steepling his fingers under his nose. "And what would that be?"

"My sign is as my name," I reply. "The Serpent."

"Excellent," says he, writing on a piece of parchment that lays on the table to my right. "And your trade?"

"Assassin," I sneer. For all the neutrality with which he continues to write, I could have told him I was prancing guar. At last, he folds up the parchment and hands it to me, pointing to the door to my left and mentioning something about giving it to someone, seemingly unaware of my clear disinterest. My clawed fingers curl around the parchment and I leave through the door, wondering what punishment they have in store for me. My curiosity gets the better of me; once the door is closed behind me, I open the letter and read:

"For release, by Emperor Uriel Septim VII's decree, to the district of Vvardenfell in the province of Morrowind.

Name: The Serpent

Race: Argonian

Class: Assassin

Signed,

Socucius Ergalla

Agent of the Seyda Neen Imperial Census and Excise.

16th of Last Seed 3E 427"

Hot bile rises up in my throat with revulsion and fury. Release? _RELEASE?!_ After all that I have done, they dare loose me upon the world again?! Are they really so asinine as to endanger Vvardenfell's citizens?

Apparently... yes.

"Alright... I don't know what they're plotting, but I'll play along," I growl to myself at last, folding the letter back up as best I can and storming down the hall. A right turn, and I am in what appears to be a dining room. I barely glance at my surroundings before catching notice of a door at it's end, a thin draft seeping through the cracks, ripe with the scent of marshland and telling me that the door leads out of the building. So, I move toward that door and out it. Sure enough, it leads out, but yet again into an enclosed area, bordered by two stone walls and two buildings--the one I came out of, and one opposite me. Drudging through the marshy mud of the ground, I approach the opposing building and go through its door. A human with brown hair and rich red-and-gold armor greets me. Antonius Nuncius, I think he says his name is, though I cannot be sure, as my mind is muddled and he does not repeat it. I am fairly certain he is the one whom I was to deliver these mistaken papers of import, however, and hand it over.

"What is this?" His eyes switch it over, and he beams. "Ah, so you're here at last." There is more talking, and next I know I have been given another piece of paper, that I am to take to one Caius Cosades. I am beginning to feel quite the errand-lizard.

"Where is Caius Cosades's place of habitation?" I query, resenting my lowly task but reveling in my own bitterness.

"In Balmora," says he. "Ask around when you get there."

"And where, pray tell," I prod further, "is Balmora?"

"Around town is the siltstrider port," he replies, as simply as though I had asked him how to walk. "Take the siltstrider to Balmora. It's as simple as that. Oh... and here's some gold to cover the transactions." He plops a plump bag carrying easily 200 drakes into my palm. I stand there dumbly, then snarl, tossing the money to the ground.

"Are you _INSANE?!_" I growl, tempted to shove him against a wall. "I am a wanted criminal! I choked a man with his own intestines! You're letting me go free--and paying me, no less!--to take a package to a man in some obscure city on this unlucky island?!"

"Yes." His smile is grating my nerves. I glare at him uncertainly for a good while. Finally, I take up the fallen bag of coins, pick out which door leads away from here, yank it open and slam it closed behind me. No sooner have I done so, than the drear and murk that is the small wetland town of Seyda Neen opens up before me.

It is beautiful.

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(To be continued in Chapter Two...) 


	2. Dark and Drear

(A/N: I'm surprised at the number of reviews last chapter earned me, but pleasantly so. My thanks to everyone who reviewed; here's Chapter Two.

Disclaimer: Morrowind is still not mine.)

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**S**eyda Neen is a small town composed entirely of ramshackle huts set in muddy ground; I'm not even sure if it can rightly be called be called a town. It's inhabitants wander to and fro, completing small tasks here and there, but mostly chattering with each other. The same ocean which buoyed the prison ship here laps at the shore but a stone's throw away. Just ahead, the marshland continues for what could be leagues, or perhaps less than a few miles. I cannot be sure. But I do not care.

My mind is weak and unstable, contradiction upon contradiction. It can do little but complain as instinct overwhelms my senses, and I bolt ahead, feet splashing through the puddled mud. The townspeople are a blur, so quickly I sprint, going in leaps and bounds over even the pettiest obstacles. As the Argonian heart which thuds in my chest takes over, I feel a momentary bliss. But the sweet adrenaline rush can only last so long. Shortly after, my racing heart and racing feet together slow, dwindling to a rough plod over the sodden ground. My indulgent grin falls back into a sour grimace, and the conflicting troubles which plague my hateful mind come rushing back.

I have left the town long behind, I see. Only dank, dark marshland surrounds me now, murky bogs dotting the sloshy landscape. Vivid greens and blues dart past my eyes as dragonflies zip by, whilst puny mosquitoes peck at my hard scales in futile hopes of finding blood-drink. A sigh shudders my emaciated, bleeding body as I climb knee-deep into a bog and sit on the stagnant pool's bank. My tail sinks down in the soft soil with me, barely twitching as the mud entombs it.

I do not know if I have ever been to marsh before. Perhaps once, long ago; perhaps the Black Marsh itself. Perhaps I was tended to by ones scaly as myself. If I was, though, it was long before I can remember. As it is, my earliest memory involves a man whose name would not strike me as familiar by now. He was urging me through a test of sorts; though the details are dead to me, I do recall running breathless through the night, poison my own and blood another's mixing in my mouth. This was undoubtedly one of the first in a series of trials that would train me to be a killer.

A sudden thought intrudes my grim reminiscence. That man, Socucius, was his name? He asked me for my name, class and sign... but in the note he wrote, he never once mentioned the sign he had asked for. What other use might he have had for asking? Verification, perhaps... I had given out such information before being boarded on the ship to Vvardenfell. Most likely, he had been told all about me already--all those fool officials knew, that is--and was only asking again to test my truthfulness. _Pfah._

Another inconsistency occurs to me. I was to deliver a package. Did the man give it to me? I cannot remember! I search my being, stripping off the itchy clothing as I look. I finally think reasonably, looking inside the pack of gold coins and finding a bundle of paper tied up with twine, addressed to one "Caius Cosades". He--Antonius, that is--had assumed I would toss the letter away and keep the gold, so had packed them together. On the contrary, the gold bores me. Intrigued by the letter, I slit the strings with my claws and unfold the paper, smoothing out the creases as best I can and leaving dark smears of marsh mud. Scribbled on the letter is some sort of gibberish I strive to decipher, but fail. Muttering crossly, I fold the paper back up--crumple, more like--and return it to the money-bag. Now, if only I can find Balmora... But what am I thinking of this for? I have no obligation to serve this corrupted empire! And yet, part of me wishes to fulfill the command. Perhaps a lifetime of being ordered around has set me in a rut...

A distant scream breaks my ponderous thoughts. My eyes are drawn skyward, to a colorful shape hurtling toward the ground. The strange object appears to be a humanoid in a colorful garment. He has picked up a lot of velocity, shooting through the air as fast as the dragonflies and every bit as gaudy. He smacks into the ground--not a bog, sadly for him--with a great splash of fetid mud. Some of the mud splashes onto me, though I am not concerned with that. I wander toward the man hesitantly. He is a wood elf, garbed in a pastel blue robe, a green book nearly as large as himself tucked under his arm, a glimmering quill stuck between his stubby fingers. His eyes are glassy, his torso bent at an impossible angle. The fall has clearly killed him.

Just seconds later, something flutters down out of the sky and lands on my head. I remove and examine it. It is a hat, appropriately enough, yellow, triangular and undoubtedly his. I stand there in shocked silence for a long moment, hat limp in my hands, unsure of what to make of all this.

And then I notice the leather pack on his back.

For reasons unknown even to me, I slip it off the Bosmer's shoulders and over my own, after emptying it of any contents. I drop the bag of gold coins in the pack, then kneel down and examine the small man. Further confusing myself. I slip the robe off his small frame, bundle it up and stuff it in the pack after the coins. For good measure, I add the hat in as well. Pushing buttons through slits, I secure the flap closed and continue on my way, casting the naked, broken Bosmer carcass lying in the mud not even a second glance.

Guars are odd creatures, aren't they? Close relatives of the kagouti and the alit, from the looks of it, with those humongous heads, pebble-like skin and just two limbs. They have such an unwieldy way of walking, you would think for sure they would topple over, but they don't. Such thoughts cross my mind as I survey an enraged guar charging at me in its ungainly manner, mouth opening wide as it prepares to deliver a crushing bite. Snatching a thick stick off the ground, I spear it through the guar's soft underjaw and thrust it into the air, where it cries and struggles pathetically to free itself. The stick slides deeper, piercing through the roof of the guar's mouth and finally connecting with the creature's brain. Its movements grow even more frenzied at this; taking pity, I tilt my arm downwards and the let the beast slide off the stick, whereupon I stab its body full of holes with said stick. Oozing blood and other fluids out numerous openings, the guar groans and dies.

Standing triumphant over my victim, I am aware of a panging hunger in my gut. I stroke my protruding ribs absentmindedly. How many months has it been since last I ate? Three? Four? Six? The small rat I swallowed whole onboard the ship hardly counts. My kind can go far longer than the warmbloods without eating, but we must eat some time. Touching a cut on my side and half-accidentally reopening it with my claw, I urge myself to inflict more damage upon myself and go still longer without food. The smell of fresh blood whets my appetite with a vengeance, however, and next I know my jaws are clamped in the corpse's flesh, tearing out meat and wolfing it down to sate my famished body. When I have eaten my fill, I at last withdraw, wiping my snout with my arm and licking out the bits of flesh caught between my fangs.

"I hope you're pleased," I growl at myself, tail twitching irritably. "I am," I respond a second later with a self-satisfied smirk. I groan at my weak resolve and storm onward, sinking in marsh sludge up to my calves. My stomach twists unpleasantly, and I wonder if the Bosmer's flesh wouldn't have gone done easier. I am restless, though, and have no wish to turn back, so I trudge on.

I slosh through muck and cattails for quite some time, wading through small bogs and scrabbling up the small, drooping trees that sprout up in my way on occasion, scaling the tip and dropping off the other side to continue my dreary path. Something in my Argonian nature is thrilled to be here, while the rest of me moans and groans for some reason or another, averse to pleasure.

I know not for how long I wander, but by and by I encounter a voice to my left, far enough away that the speaker is out of sight. The hoarse nature of it indicates a male Dunmer is speaking; pausing to listen, I recognize that he is cursing as he endeavors to reel in an ornery slaughterfish. He wins out in the end, and the dry sound of him sloughing off the fish's scales with a knife follows soon after. Intrigued by this--and, admittedly, bored out of my skull by everything else--I draw closer. A tall tree stands in my path as I close in on the source of the sound. Without a second thought, I sink my claws into the rough bark and shimmy up the trunk, coming to a stop on a thick bough at least twenty feet off the ground. From here, I can see the Dunmer man, wrinkled and gray-haired. He sits on a squat wooden stool, busily shucking off the fish's scales with a small knife, his pupilless red eyes downturned at his work.

The Dunmer is on a dock, and the dock branches off, extending over the ocean and connecting to the marshy shore. Ramshackle wooden huts sag atop the leaning docks and on the shore, people walking in and out of them to prove there is life in that slipshod town. From my perch atop the bare tree's highest bough, I have a bird's-eye view of the whole dump. Likely, they would also have a perfect view of me, should anyone bother to look up. But they don't.

The Dunmer man finishes stripping the slaughterfish, scooping its irridescent green scales into a cloth sack and pushing the raw red corpse back into the water. The slaughterfish's meat is worthless, but the scales make a good meal. Just beyond the old mer, three Dunmer children play a game that involves setting down a rock and running a precise distance away from it. If one child goes too far or not far enough, they're chided by the other two and then it's someone else's turn to play. Turns rotate rapidly as none of the three are very expert, but that does not stop them from enjoying themselves.

"No running on the docks!" the old mer barks, waving a leathery blue arm at the youngsters. "What've I told you? They could collapse if you keep that up!"

"Aww, Grampa," the smallest frowns pleadingly. The elder two seize the younger by the arms and drag her back onto the shore obediently, though shooting their grandfather dirty looks behind his back. The old mer grumbles to himself about his snide grandchildren as he winds the fishing pole's line back up, baits the hook and lets it drop into the murky waters once more.

"'Patience is a virtue'," he quotes to no one in particular. My attention shifts back to the children. They have changed games, now racing each other around tree trunks, collapsing in the mud and squealing excitedly when caught. I wonder what it must be like, to know such a time of peace and innocence, the world yet so pure. What must it be like, to have the reassurance of someone there to protect you from the monsters beneath your bed and in your closet? Even in my youngest years, I was used as a tool of murder and corruption. No one cared enough to comfort me when I was distressed, frightened. A morose sigh shudders my body as my eyelids droop closed, though the sun is only beginning to set. Before long, sleep overwhelms...

I know this dream far too well. The skies are black and the waters red, no land in sight as I bob like a lost toy ship in the crimson sea. Inspecting my surroundings, I see mountains. At least, I think they are mountains; but as my eyes adjust, they prove to be corpses, mounds and mounds of corpses. Some have rotted to bones, others clung to by fetid clumps of flesh. Others still are recently slain, their eyes rolled up in their heads and mouths agape, fatal gashes covering their bodies, parts of them absent. Gashes slashed by my claws, body parts rended by my hands. And then there are those, who would have lived, but for the green poison filling their mouths or injected into their throats by my own fangs.

These are my victims, plentiful over the years, and there is not a single sallow face among them that I do not recognize, that I do not remember slaying. Even now, they rot to fill the earth; but in my dreams, despite their mutilations, they are still very alive. Their bones clank and move together into recognizable forms, walking on water as though it were solid ground as they lurch toward me. Green venom spirals from where they touch the water, mixing with the red water in disturbing shapes. As the enlivened carcasses reach their rotten arms toward me, I twist my head frantically, looking for an escape, and take the only way out: ducking beneath the water. I swim down, down, down into the scarlet depths, taking in the bloody water and breathing it out the gills on the sides of my head, body fluxing with the motions of swimming. I shiver violently with each breath, racked by pain, fear and guilt.

Normally, I would swim for the remainder of the dream and then awaken, in dreary spirits as always. Here, however, the dream takes a new course by devising new means of torture. My gills disappear, and I find myself filling my lungs with sanguine water, desperately trying to breathe it. At the same time, my scales lift and peel away, leaving only soft skin for the acidic water to bite and burn at. My feet are shrunken, my tail is gone, and I begin to scramble rather than swim. Suddenly the surface is right beneath me, and through it I fall, slamming backfirst on the hard floor of a dry room. My breaths are labored as I cough up water, blood and poison, until I stop breathing altogether, though I live yet. Looking up, I see the ocean of blood is gone, a dark and dusty ceiling having replaced it. Moving pains me too much to look much further, but I do notice that I cannot see my snout. Then, what little view I have is blocked by a strange sight: a golden mask, fashioned after a fiery sun but decorated by vaguely human features. I could swear it is smiling. A voice echoes from within the mask.

"You have returned at last," it states boastfully. "It took you long... but no matter, so long as you are here now." I am paralyzed, unable to lash out. Frustration and confusion fills me, and I try to give voice to my indignations; but without breath, my tongue only flutters in vain.

"You have been dead for a long time, my friend," the masked one continues, unable to hide the pleasure in his voice--it is a he. "You're confused, aren't you? Not to worry... I'm here for you. When things become clearer, we will meet again. But for now..." A long-fingered hand passes over my face, then lowers and clamps down on it. Though infuriated, I still notice that I cannot feel my snout. The hand's grip tightens, and blackness is all I see...

I burst into consciousness in a frenzied rage. I grab the nearest thing and sink my teeth into it, letting poison flow out of my fangs and into the stricken. Ripping my mouth away, I attack with my claws and rip apart the foe, too blinded my anger to see my opponent. Red and black flash before my eyes, but once the fury has finally drained from my system I see that I have successfully eviscerated a tree trunk. Feeling the straps of a leather pack digging into my shoulders, I remember where I am. Reason comes flushing back, along with humility and I am mildly embarrassed. I push the dream out of my head as best I can, but the fear and unsettlement of the nightmare does not leave me. Shivering with fear more than the chill of the night around me, I notice the stars overhead and the dormant collection of shacks below. Sighing with slight relief, I dig my claws into the ruined trunk and slide down it, feet stamping into swampy ground.

I sniff the marsh-tinted air, gather my senses and continue on.

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(Chapter Three will continue the tale.) 


	3. Flickering Lights

(A/N: Thanks again for all the reviews; here's the new chapter.

Disclaimer: I'm not Bethesda. Morrowind isn't mine.)

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**_Death's Kiss - Chapter Three - Flickering Lights._**

**S**ometimes I wonder why I don't just kill myself. Flexing my fingers, I tap my claws against my throat teasingly, then lift them up and prepare to drive them through the scales and into the soft flesh below, letting the blood gush out in red spurts. Something stays my malevolent hand, however, and forces it to drop, as always. I have tested it before; no matter the method, I am unable to bring myself to commit suicide. I do not fear death, and have no scruples against it, so I have no idea what keeps me from doing away with myself. Snarling at the unknown preventor, I instead deliver a non-fatal but nonetheless painful blow to my ribs, ripping open a huge, glistening red gash and grinning broadly even as I utter a tormented moan. "Cut off the nose to spite the face" is a saying I live by anymore.

When I clambered down from the tree earlier and continued my journey, it was midnight. I have been wandering the marsh in the same bleak spirits since then, and it is now midday. The stubborn survivor inside me makes me pack the dire wound closed with mud, lest I bleed to death. Growling, hissing and cursing them, I push to my knees out of the soft, dank soil and trudge onward, tail twitching irritably.

Yelping sounds catch my attention, and I see a couple of the oddest creatures I have ever seen engaged in a fight. Rather than fur or flesh or feathers, they are encased in gray-green carapaces. Their protruding, swiveling balloons of eyes are red as fresh-spilt blood. Their four legs are ended in three-toed feet, their mouthparts bear uncanny resemblance to those of an insect, and they emit doglike noises as they bludgeon each other with their forefeet. I have heard of these creatures; they're called nix-hounds.

Under normal circumstances, the beasts would likely have aimed to attack me. But for the time being, they are precoccupied with dueling each other. I watch them as I walk, wondering what they fight for. Fun? Territory? A mate? I have heard that in the Black Marsh, male Argonians battle for such reasons, bashing their oversized horns together in tests of might. To this Argonian, such dueling seems a waste of the ultimately more powerful fangs, claws and flexible but strong bodies with which our kind has been blessed. Or cursed, considering these very "gifts" are the reason my race is so valued on the slave market. I look down at my clawed hands now, flexing them tentatively as I remember the many shades of flesh they have torn through. When I look back, the nix-hounds are out of view. My hands lower and hang at my sides as I continue on.

Even a murderer needs rest. To my right, the ground has risen gradually as I walked, by now forming a towering wall of dank mud. I pinwheel on my feet and let myself collapse backward into the wall, sliding down into a sitting position and momentarily enjoying the mud's cool, smooth texture against my scales. My eyes squeeze shut, then open slightly. Dragonflies and mosquitoes dance as they fly before my eyes, mudcrabs drag themselves through the slude, rats skip through bogs and shake their fur dry. Low squeaks, hums, howls and chirps fill the swamp with a peaceful, natural sort of music. It would be enough to lull one to sleep... but other sounds intrude. The sounds of humans and mer speaking, laughing and shouting, of food trolleys wheeling over cobblestone paths, of guards reprimanding citizens for petty crimes. My eyes open wide in confusion.

"Is my mind playing tricks on me?" I mutter to myself, sitting up tense and scratching the fringes on my left gill. I look up at the wall of soil behind me. "No... it's coming from up there." I am thoughtfully quiet for an instant; then I turn around and leap onto the wall, easily sinking my claws into the soft soil and clambering up it. Though the wall is not perfectly vertical, it is very steep, and the mud is too pliable, coming away in chunks under my weight and setting me back. I dig my limbs in deeper, to where the soil is more tightly packed, and haul myself all the way to the top at last. A strange sight meets with me there, though consistent with the sounds I heard earlier.

There is a city here. The rows and rows of buildings are squat and square, made of a tough tan substance akin to plaster in appearance, the same substance with which the streets are paved, and rails and steps built of. Green glass windows glint out of the buildings like verdant eyes. Men and women, human and mer, rich and poor, old and young, stride through the streets, keeping up lively conversations as they head for home, work or a tavern. Some are wheeling small food trolleys through the streets, selling gristly meats, sweet buns and milky candies to passersby. Dunmer guards keep watch, shelled in heavy golden armor that covers all but their calloused blue hands. The whole city seems to gleam golden in the waning sun, a silver-blue river cutting just through its center from what I can tell. It is a sight to see, worlds apart from the bleak marsh just below it.

Currently, I am pressed against the back of a small building, watching this all in secrecy. The harshness of my breath shocks me to my senses. Slipping the leather pack off my shoulders, I unbutton the flap and open it. I take out the robe and pull it over my head, noting that it only extends to my knees. For no reason in particular, I also take out the ridiculous triangular hat and jam it over my skull. Tail wagging restlessly under the robe, I step out into the open and walk out into the streets.

As dusk sets in, the trolley owners begin to head for home, as do the rest of the city folk. The guards are understandably cautious at this hour, and bristle at my approach.

"Halt! Who goes there, stranger?" a guard demands of me, brandishing a shortsword. I hold my hands up to show I hold no weapons, though my claws certainly qualify on their own.

"A stranger goes here," I reply. "I am from out of the city. Could you tell a lost wanderer where they stand?"

"You are in Balmora, stranger," the guard informs. I blink.

"Balmora?" If I am correct, this is the place I am to take the message. I was wandering the marsh without aim; what are the odds I would end up here? A short, sharp laugh escapes my throat, which only heightens the guard's suspicions and causes him to clench his weapon tighter. Apparently, my look is as unaccommodating as my personality. The scars may have something to do with it. Still, this guard's skittishness tells me he is new to his job. Feigning oblivion to his fear, I draw a step closer. Sure enough, the guard backs up a step, realizing that even without armor I surpass him in height.

"Stay back, n'wah!" he snaps, hoarse voice quivering as rapidly as his blade. "I'll have no trouble out of you!" I let my hands fall to my sides.

"You'll have no trouble out of me, sera," I smile sadistically. "Not for the time being, that is." So saying, I turn and walk off.

"You should stay at an inn tonight," the guard calls after me. "Safer, that way." Safer for whom--me, or the public? I'm guessing the latter.

When the night is fully cast out over the sky in all its blackness, white pinpoints showing through in the shapes of many stars and twin moons, I am slinking through the streets, worming my way around corners and casting pointless looks through opaque green windows. The gold is gone from Balmora with the sun, faded to gray while the city sleeps, and here I am, still awake. The river cutting through the city shines silver in the light of the two moons, two arched bridges running smoothly out of the pavement, across the contained waters, and returning to pavement on the other side. I spare the bridges the feel of my feet and leap swiftly across without their aid, the sound of running river waters echoing up the manmade canal sides and throughout my skull.

The houses on this side of the river are packed together so tightly they form a wall, two arched openings allowing passage through to the next row. I pass under an arch, breath forming crystal smoke in the air. One part of this city that I can see still rings with laughter and light, a building far to my right, drawing nearer as I approach it. The lights inside shine through the windows and cast green rays on the ground, the sounds of merriment, drinking contests and bar fights barging through cracks. I open the door and slip inside.

There is, indeed, a bar in here. But it is downstairs; I shove my way around corners past flushed patrons on their way out, whisking down the stairwell in a single bound and landing unharmed on the lower floor. Here, people crowd around the bar and put their drakes down. The bartender slaps the drakes into a money pouch and serves the foaming flagons of alcohol the restless crowd craves. The drink flowing through their systems, the patrons dance and laugh, make foam beards and play-growl. A little play can launch into a full-fledged fight, however, and it is up to the bouncer--a tall orc man with flared nostrils--to eject such cases, and any directly involved, from the tavern. This seedy old place, however, is home to more than tired commonfolk, as is evidenced by the shady characters pressed up against the walls, muttering secretively to each other and paying little or no attention to the occasional slob who stumbles their way. I snarl at the underhanded connivers as I pass, reminded of my past slavery under such as them.

Pushing my way past the drunken groups, I lean on the counter and keep my place stubbornly, looking the bartender, a fair-skinned human man, straight in the eye. He pretends to ignore me, drying out a drained flagon with a grimy washrag, but my glare is piercing, and the tender can stand it no longer.

"What is it, Argonian?" he cries, exasperated. "I'm busy tonight!"

"I am looking for a man, name of Caius Cosades," I explain, unperturbed.

"He lives in the last row of houses on this side," the bartender informs, setting out three flagons and filling them with brew from a smoky brown bottle. Wiping his forehead of sweat with his sleeve, he jerks his thumb to the right. "Lives at the end. That way."

"Much obliged, sera." I slip my elbow off the bar and leave the man to his work, tromping toward the stairs. A drunken Dunmer staggers in front of me.

"What're you doin' off yer leash, lizard?" he slurs, poking me in the chest. "Huh? HUH?"

"Out of my way," I growl. The Dunmer and the Argonians have a long-standing hatred for each other, due to the Dunmer slavers who capture Argonians in their own marsh to be sold as slaves. I am too far removed from my own race to feel such a personal loathing, but I don't like being insulted.

"What if I don't wanna--don't wanna move?" he shoots back, pushing his face in mine and breathing an alcoholic stench on me. "What then? Huh? HUH? HUH??"

"Then this is going to hurt," I hiss, fangs bared.

"Huh?" the mer utters, confused. I grab his shoulders and slam him against the wall, knocking him unconscious. Of course, he would have passed out on his own later, anyway. That out of the way, I leap back up the stairs and exit the tavern.

The second row of houses forms a wall as well. Again, two arches allow entrance into the next and final row. The third row is higher up than the previous two; beneath the arches are sets of stairs, made from the same substance as the pavement. Showing a blatant disregard for trivial conveniences as always, I hop up over these steps as well. These back houses are fewer and farther apart, their backs pressing right up against a high mountain range. Turning to my right as the bartender advised, I see a house sitting plainly at the very end, of the same make as all the rest. A tree grows right beside it, roots prying apart the house's foundation. The house faces me so directly that it's almost as if it's challenging me to come in. I don't pass it up.

I approach the door, then waver before it hesitantly. Conniving past the buttoned flap, my hand squeezes into my pack and withdraws the letter from the moneybag, then worms back out with it. I stare at the letter, and the cordially printed "Caius Cosades" on it, wondering if I really want to be here.

No time to reconsider. Apparently, the windows aren't so opaque on the inside; the house's inhabitant notices me and swings the door open before I can even knock. Said inhabitant is an aging human man, with thinning gray hair and, unfortunately, no shirt. He squints at me, trying to discern my reptilian features in the dark.

"Do I know you?" he wonders. I sniff the air.

"No," I say. "Did you know your house reeks of skooma?"

"Yes, I did," he replies irritably. "What are you here about?"

"I take it your name is Caius Cosades?" I query carelessly, looking around the house's interior behind him. It's a modest one-room abode, with a small shelf on one wall above a heavy chest, a table for meals, a small bedside table beside that, and a bed to accompany it. The man is far from a tidy housekeeper, with miscellany strewn about the place. I note that the skooma scent seems be coming from the bed, and a grainy pink substance that looks suspiciously like moonsugar rests on the end table. The man smells heavily of both drugs.

"That's me," he nods. "An old man with a skooma problem."

"And a moonsugar problem, from the smell of it," I add. "Why would the officials want me to see a man obviously addicted to illegal drugs, such as yourself?"

"What about the officials?" he asks curiously.

"Perhaps if I could come in..." I insinuate. Eying me mistrustfully, he relents and lets me inside. I duck inside, noting that I'm easily four inches taller than he. Caius shuts the door behind me, and I hand him the letter clutched in my hand.

"This should clear things up," I decide. "It's only gibberish to me, but I expect you'll know what it says." Taking the letter from me, Caius scans though it in a comprehensive way that tells me my guess was correct. Finishing up, he gazes at me with a studious expression.

"Yes. Very interesting." He coughs. "So. It says here the Emperor wants me to make you a Novice in the Blades. And that means you'll be following my orders. Are you ready to follow my orders, 'the Serpent'?" He cracks a smile despite himself upon saying my name.

"Call me what you will, if you have a better name for me," I glower. "What sort of 'orders' does the Emperor wish me to fulfill?" I assume that I am to serve as an assassin once more.

"Are you ready to follow my orders?" Caius repeats seriously.

"Yes," I answer reluctantly.

"Good," he smiles, holding out a hand amiably. "Welcome to the service, Novice Serpent. Now you belong to the Blades. We're the Emperor's eyes and ears in the provinces." I blink, hesitantly taking his hand and shaking it tentatively.

"So, essentially," I say, "you're a spy?"

"Essentially," he avers.

"Not an assassin?" I prod.

"...uh, no." A wave of relief washes over me at his reply.

"Good," I say. "Now, about those orders..."

"First thing, pilgrim," Caius says, clapping his hands together. "You smell like a swamp. Go clean yourself off and find a decent change of clothes, and then we'll talk."

"As you say, sera," I agree shamelessly, sarcastically bowing. The hat falls off in response to this inclination. Standing again, I notice that Caius looks slightly perplexed, his eyes fixated on my head.

"What is it?" I prompt.

"I just... hadn't realized you were female," he says honestly. I run a hand over the two short horns his eyes are trained on.

"Ah, no worries," I respond. "I forget myself, half the time." In truth, gender identity is not a top priority when one serves as little more than a killing machine for most of one's life. "Farewell." I head out the door and into the streets.

I am crossing the bridge again when it occurs to me that I actually held up a cordial conversation. I wasn't aware I could do such a thing. Perhaps my newfound freedom is bringing out the best in me.

A second thing occurs to me: I am free. The thought makes me smile, just a little. When I was a child, before my spirit was broken, I would have danced with joy at being released. My spirit is too darkened by years of murder for me to feel so ecstatic now, but I do feel a twinge of joy at the full realization of my emancipation.

I notice, then, the river below me. I should clean the marsh smell off me, as Caius said; but somehow, I don't think I'll fit in at the local bathhouse. It would likely be best to bathe in said river.

So in I jump, and away I swim.

* * *

(Tell me what you thought of that chapter, and Chapter Four will be on its way.) 


	4. Drops of Blood

(A/N: Sorry for the delay. I developed writer's block writing my main story, and felt too guilty to proceed with this one.

Disclaimer: I'm running out of disclaimers... suffice it to say, Morrowind does not belong to me.)

**_Death's Kiss - Chapter Four - Drops of Blood._**

"They brought you from the Imperial City..."

"Welcome back to this land, old friend..."

"Nine Divines, PLEASE, SAVE ME!"

"What am I..."

Three shades blend in one dream. A kind woman's assurance, a strange man's gloat, a dying victim's last scream. A sense of two beings inside me shatters any semblence of sanity, and I awake.

Awake to find myself gagging on a warm mass of fur and flesh. Shocked, I cough up the hairy thing and see that during my sleep, I have killed a rat with my jaws. That clears up one thing, but my mind is still a blur as my head pivots frantically. A new sun gleams up from the ground as the two moons wane, reflecting beautifully on the gleaming river before me. I remember, now... I swam downstream this river to bathe myself, and rested on the bank as night set in. At the very least, that makes sense now.

The robe is wet, and plastered to my being. I must have forgotten to take it off. I amend that mistake now, peeling the soggy thing off and dropping it disdainfully in the riverside mire. Tail waggling uncertainly, I creep toward the river on all fours. The river moves too fast for a reflection to be made out, so I swat a hole in the mud and let the river water flow into it. When the dirt settles to the bottom of the newly formed puddle, I look down and examine myself.

It is still the same face I behold, here. I bear a head resembling nothing so much as that of a snake, save for two short horns and an equal amount of fringed gills. My slitted pupils are encompassed by warm amber, though cold nonetheless, and jaundiced yellow scales cover my face, glinting sallow in the sunlight. A slight part of the mouth reveals sharp fangs, always ready to sink into warm flesh. An aggravated hiss slips past them as I sink back in the mud, relieved but disturbed. I need to know what these dreams mean.

I dip waist-deep into the water, then dive into the deeps. After sloughing dirt off my scales, I resurface and clamber on land again. Dunking the sad excuse for a robe in the water and wringing the wet out as best I care to, I redress and head back upriver toward Balmora. For the time being, I am eager to serve. For me, following orders is a way of maintaining order. A way to keep myself sane. And a way to spite the mindless bloodlust within me.

Slogging through the ankle-deep mud, I can see Balmora, a bastion of civilization in the distance. However, the city no longer emanates the same sort of golden aura it seemed to yesterday. It seems duller, grayer now... as does my spirit. Any twinge of happiness it bore last night is since gone.

I smell water in the air. Before long, the clouds open up and unleash water in the air, first in drops and then in torrents. My feet sink deeper with each step as the mud mixes with the oncoming water and loses its solidity. The river rises over its preestablished banks and laps at my calves; the rain slides in crystalline rivulets down my scales. The robe has molded to me, restricting movement of my legs and tail as I near the city. Only a few people pace its drabbed streets, most sheltering under umbrellas. Those that do not wallow in the alleys and look up self-piteously at the gray sky, rainwater building in their eyes and spilling out like tears.

A tapestry hangs from a poles, sodden with water and flapping limply in gusts of rainy wind. Embroidered with symbols of the Imperial writing system, it advertises a clothier residing in the blocky two-story house beside it. I glance at the robe stuck to my person and walk in without a second thought.

A human man sorts coins at a counter when I walk in. It is a cozy establishment, with an upstairs bedroom, I note, looking around; more reminiscent of a home than a shop.

"A Clagius Clanler lives here, yes?" I ask, shutting the door.

"I am he. You're dripping water all over my floor, outlander," he says without looking up.

"Did you call me an... outlander?" I ask, surprised.

"Your accent is obvious. Don't try to hide it," he replies, squinting at a slightly discolored goldpiece.

"Accent?" It simply never occurred to me that I have an accent. I was shipped all throughout the Western provinces in my youth, so any accent I do have is a blend of several. My voice is little more than a hiss, though, favoring the S's and breathy sounds, so one would think the voice itself would draw attention away the accent. Humans and elves are strange creatures to notice such things, to be sure.

"You want to buy something for your master, I take it?" he wonders, putting the coins away in a small chest on a shelf behind him and turning to me.

"I _am _my master," I hiss, irked. "I can pay you. I need at least a dozen outfits, any sort will do, so long as they'll last." Clagius nods and opens the counter, walking through to meet me and guiding me to another room in the shop, in which no less than fifty outfits have been hung up on hooks and displayed on mannequins, while even more have been packed away in lowset wooden dressers. I slip my claws under a rich red garment and lift it off its hook, letting it unfurl to its full length in my hand.

"This looks the right size," I decide. "How much is it?"

"Three hundred drakes," he informs. I pause, fold the robe over - improperly, I can tell from the grimace the shopkeep gives me - and return it to the hook.

"Do you have anything more... reasonably priced?" I query. In response, he pulls open a dresser drawer, shuffles around and pulls out several frayed pastel robes.

"If by 'reasonably priced', you mean 'of shoddy quality and cheaper than a lump of coal'," the shopkeeper affirms, holding them out. "Only ten septims each."

"They barely look worth one septim altogether," I say dryly, counting them. Nine robes, that's ninety septims. I lift up the bag of coins I was given in Seyda Neen and spill it gradually in my hand. I can count - not very well, but I can count. I tediously count out ten; using this as a basis, I sort the other eighty out more quickly and give them to the shopkeep as I go. A tiny smile teases at his lips as he scoops the coins into a small burlap bag of his own and holds out his arm, draped over with the cheap robes. I take them, fold them sloppily and stuff them in my pack. The transaction is complete, and I leave.

The rain has stopped, the sun has emerged from the clouds, and the people are populating Balmora's streets once more as I walk out. A Nord woman passing especially closely by catches my attention. My fangs produce venom and my hands starts to lash out. I pull it back before it can reach the woman and hiss at myself. The urge to kill is strong in me... but I can beat it. I know I can.

I look up at the sun. This only lasts so long, before the brilliance begins to offend my eyes. I want to keep looking, and pain myself; I force myself to look away, instead watching a Dunmer man followed by what must be his wife and daughter pass by. I can be like that, I tell myself. I don't have to be a monster. The weight of the newly purchased clothing in my pack reassures me, though poison still fills my mouth and bloodlust burns in me. Each and every person here... so easily could they be ripped, their blood so waaaarrrmmm... _yeeeesssss..._

"NO!" The outburst gains me a few looks, not that I care. I rush along hurriedly, narrowly avoiding slamming into a food trolley in my haste. The sound of the river is somewhat soothing as I dart over the bridge, headed for Caius's house. "Remember your orders! _Remember your orders!_" I tell myself in a futile attempt to dull my insanity with remembrance of reasonable duty, accidentally banging headlong into an elderly Dunmer woman.

"Watch where you're going, lizard!" she snaps, but I ignore her. Over the cobblestones, up the steps, roundabout to the left and here is Caius's house. I slam my fist against the door, which opens punctually. Caius looks up at me from the doorway, then looks me over.

"You're still wearing that robe," he says, as though I didn't know. "And it smells marshier than before."

"You're sstill shirtlessss," I retort, shoving my way inside and forcing my carnal urges down as best I can. The more I revert to my murderous state, the harder it is to focus my vocal emissions into words. "And you look flabbier than before." He looks offended, naturally, but right now I feel like doing much worse than insulting his dumpy build. I fling myself to the floor and clutch my head, shivering fervently. Caius is quiet.

"What's wrong?" he asks at last.

"The sssaaame that hhaasss alwaaaysss been wrooong," I hiss, my tail convulsing like a dying snake as my claws dig into my temples. Damn this craving for flesh, for blood... _must it master me!_

Resisting the overwhelming desire to sink my teeth into the vulnerable old man before me, I stagger to my feet and stare at the wall instead. I don't recall a time I've ever had to restrain myself before... irons bars, shackles and collars did the restraining for me until my homicidal fervor was conveniently utilized to attain someone's honor, revenge or ill-begotten money through murder they will not commit themselves. I was a slave trained to kill, a cheap alternative to an assassin, and the killing instinct is strong in me yet. In some ways, I am still a slave.

"Your Emperor... mussst want to get rid of you," I chortle, a weak sound that curdles in the back of my throat. "Why elssse would he ssend me... to your houssse?" I clear my throat. "Yesss... it makesss ssenssse now..." So that's why I was released in Morrowind. To seek out and kill this man. That must be it. I'll be damned if I'm going to carry through with it. I lurch toward the door, but Caius's voice stops me.

"I don't think the Emperor would be trying to kill me," Caius says. He's surprisingly calm about this. "Maybe another higher-up, but not the Emperor himself. But I have a theory of my own, Argonian... you clearly have some problems. Maybe you were sent here for another reason."

"Like whhaat?"

"That's something the Emperor would know." Caius's voice is still calm. My hand rests on the door's handle. There is a long duration, where neither of us moves. Finally, I turn around.

"Whhyyy... would the Emperor... ssend me?" I query, relaxing slightly. The burst of bloodlust is passing. Caius only shrugs; he knows no more than I, or so he claims. I slump to the floor, half-sitting, neck arched down at the ground. What other reason...?

"I've been having dreamsss..." But Caius clearly doesn't care to hear them. Now that there's no risk of being torn apart by a frenzied reptile, he feels secure in giving me my orders. And I listen. Something tells me I'll be better off for it.

"After you change into something that doesn't reek, go talk to Hasphat Antabolis at the Balmora Fighters Guild," Caius instructs me. Maybe the drugs have something to do with his remarkably easy-going behavior. "Ask him what he knows about the Nerevarine secret cult and the Sixth House secret cult. You'll have to do him a favor first. Probably an ugly favor. But do it. Then get the information from Antabolis and report back to me.

"By the way... Hasphat is a student of Morrowind history. Take the chance to get a little education. And I have a few history books in here. Help yourself. You're welcome to them. No point in being part of history if you're too ignorant to understand it." He gestures to a couple books scattered haphazardly on the floor, one peeking out from under the bed.

"Quite the housekeeper, aren't you?" I ask wryly, getting to my feet; if he can feign ignorance to the events of not one minute ago, so can I. "And no thank-you. I don't like to read if I can avoid it."

"Suit yourself," he shrugs casually, picking a fine skooma pipe off the bedside table and taking a long drag out of its tip. I head for the door, but eyeball him suspiciously as I go. These names, Nerevarine and the Sixth Cult... they strike a twinge of familiarity within me, somehow. What would a spy want with them? And what did he mean, in his implication that I would be a part of history?

These questions boggle me as I shut the door behind me and set off again into the streets of Balmora. I encounter the Dunmer woman I crashed into earlier again. She shoots me a poisonous glare as I pass, though I pretend not to notice. I have more important business, concerning Nerevarine, the Sixth House, and a man called Hasphat Antabolis.

I should probably change out of this rank robe first... but I don't.


	5. Memories

(A/N: Had to take a break from writing, but I'm back now. In this chapter, the story begins to unfold. Thanks to everyone who reviewed.

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Morrowind.)

**_Death's Kiss - Chapter Five - Memories._**

**H**asphat Antabolis. Nerevarine. Sixth House. These names run through my head - the last two in particular - as I head over the bridges and try to locate the place called the Fighters' Guild. This is an easy business - I haven't gone long before I come across a two-story building boasting a prominent wooden sign inscribed with the like. I open the door without a thought, but go in with one: this place reeks. Of sweat, specifically. Sweat has always struck me a foul odor; as an Argonian, I lack the glands to secrete it, and this lack of familiarity makes it all the fouler to me.

I see the sweaty smell resonates from a bunch of humans and mer, swatting at beaten cloth dummies with various weapons. This being the Fighters' Guild, they are honing their fighting skills. I take a deep breath, hold it (I want to breathe this noxious atmosphere in as little as possible) and ask a red-haired human woman if she's seen Hasphat Antabolis. She eyes me suspiciously.

"What do you want with him?" she asks, glaring at me so venomously I might have asked to slice off her mother's head. I heave an inward sigh; this is what happens when one sends large, battle-scarred talking lizards after men. I doubt it'll make things any better if I tell her I was sent by Caius, the "old man with a skooma problem". I could think up a convincing lie, but she wouldn't have any reason to believe me, so that would be rather pointless. She doesn't look the type to buckle under a death threat, and that's the only other means of persuasion I know.

"I only want to talk to him," I say honestly. She doesn't flinch. I pull back my lips, revealing row after row of glistening yellow fangs and mottled black gums in an attempt at a friendly smile. "Please?" The smile seems to make her hate me more. It's times like this I wish I'd been born a cute, fuzzy little Khajiit.

"No." She's firm on this one. Fortunately, there are other people to ask. After leaving the unpleasant woman to do as she will, I encounter a more amiable human, who directs me to a room in the basement. I can feel the red-haired woman's eyes on my back as I push open the basement door; smirking to myself, I take the steps down.

Where the steps wear off, a hall opens up. I follow it down to the last door and open it - lo and behold, there is Hasphat Antabolis himself, or at least what I take to be him. And a female human, ladyfriend or relative of his I can't tell. She excuses herself and goes out as I enter, but I suspect she intends to linger just outside the door, ready to spring should I cause trouble. I slide my eyes back to watch as she shuts the door behind her, then look back at the man standing before me.

"Hasphat Antabolis?" I quest. He nods. "I've been sent to ask you about the Nerevarine and the Sixth House." I still can't shake the strange familiarity of these names. He nods again, smugly this time.

"I'll tell you what you want to know," he says, continuing before I can speak. "But first, you need to do something for me." The ugly favor Caius mentioned. I grit my teeth.

"As you wish it, sera. What would you have of me?" I wonder. He smiles more sincerely at my consent.

"There are Dwemer ruins nearby called Arkengthand. I need you to run over there" - he says this in the most irritatingly casual manner - "and find me a little cube with a circular design and some symbols on one side. It's called 'a Dwemer puzzle box'. Bring me back the Dwemer puzzle box, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

"Where is this place?" I ask. I'm to steal a puzzle? Caius calls _this_ dirty? Hasphat gives me elaborate instructions, referring to landmarks I've never heard of, so I remember less than half of what he just said. I get the gist of it, though: leave town, cross river, turn toward place that sounds like "scald" at first signpost, find second signpost to place that sounds like "Mole Egg Marsh", go right, up hill, over old bridge, turn crank. Assassins have to be good with directions, even when they're lowly slaves.

"So be it." I turn to leave, then pause as something occurs to me. "If you don't mind my saying, I believe it's pronounced Arkngthand. No 'e'." I can sense his anger at being slighted.

"How would you know?" he cries.

"A good question," I reply. "I don't think I can answer it." Indeed, I can't. And so I leave, wondering how I could pronounce such a strange name - and stranger yet, how I know what a Dwemer ruin is. I don't believe I've ever heard of one before in my life, but I know exactly what one looks like and what sort of squat, clever mer built them before becoming extinct. Odd. Very odd...

I break out of the Fighters' Guild into fresh open air, sunlight glinting off every rain-slicked surface. Stepping through shallow puddles with loud splashes, I have much to ponder as I leave Balmora.

The entrance out is semi-haloed by an arch made of the same yellow-hued stuff as all the rest. As I pass under it, I notice one of the oddest creatures I have ever seen. It looks to be a brown insect, half the size of a small house, and towers above me on thin, stiltlike legs. It lingers next to the wall bordering the city and the wilderness, mostly, but sometimes giving off soft moans of pain. A silt strider, this is. I know it as I know the Dwemer. There is something very wrong with this one... but I do not pester myself with ponderments, and continue on.

A dirt path wears out of the city limits, leading to a bridge to cross the same river which threads through the city itself. The path begins again on the other side of the bridge, wider and more refined this time around. The ground rises into rocky bluffs on either side, closing the path in and giving it a sheltered, if claustrophobic feel. I follow the path, looking for the signpost, and after five minutes of walking I find it. But it's not all I find.

Here, as the path makes a sharp turn and branches in several directions, a large building is caught up in one of its elbows. Not at all like the structures of Balmora, it is a towering, castlelike construct of gray cobblestone. Well-armored human men patrol the courtyard it encases, the walkways it suspends. An institution of the empire, no doubt... a fort. I know this because I've been in a fort before. Not that I was invited, mind you; I was on business to tear a man to pieces slowly and make it quick (contradictory as orders were), but I have been in one nonetheless. As I stand and gaze, a chill crawls up my spine. _This fort should not be here. _The thought is abrupt. I push it aside and examine the signpost. It's an upright stick, flagged by small wooden signs denoting points of interest. Strange names adorn the wooden flags, written in a stranger script that I shouldn't be able to read, but can. "Caldera" is the name I want. Following the Caldera flag, I take the north path.

I am haunted by a rough feeling of deja vu. As I walk, I pass terrain, flora and fauna alien to the western provinces. Even so, I am immersed in a feeling of familarity and pleasure as I view them, touch them, hear them. The feathery leaves of heather, the porous, bulbous roots of corkbulb, sweet red fruits of comberry plants; the whoops of amorous alit, shrieks of territorial cliff racers in the distance; the rich brown soil beneath my feet; the red tint to an otherwise blue sky. I recognize it all.

The vegetation begins to die off as I hit harsher, harder soil further down the path, which angles off yet again. Another signpost marks the single turn the path has taken: "Molag Mar." The ground is gray and unyielding, like rock. Only dead trees line the path now, black from starvation and... ash? Still familiar, but not so pleasant, I think as I tread the path, multi-faceted pebbles scattering aside with noisy _clink-clink-clink_s at my footfalls. A dip in the path prompts me to bunch my muscles and clear it in a bound, landing atop the small hill the path rises into. My tail snaps the opposite direction of my head as I look over my surroundings, miles and miles of fresh wasteland cloaked in smoky odor. And then, not so far on, a bridge.

A Dwemer bridge. Gleaming, metal, golden and rusted in the gray sunlight. A series of leaps carries me to it in no time. No water drifts by beneath the bridge, only a deep, dry ravine. I run my hand along the top bar of the bridgerail, feet feeling along the textured bottom as I cross, eyes beset on what lies at the end.

The ruin lashes up at the sky, a castle of people long dead. Carved of the same elaborate metal as the bridge, with many more intracacies, weird extensions and intentional cracks my mind cannot begin to find uses for. Things scatter the ground, doodads and gizmos and whatnot - things as vain as what seems a broken mirror, as battleready as a giant crossbow. A civilization ancient and grand, yet more technologically advanced than today's peoples could ever dream. How could such a people die out? Victims of their own grandeur?

In awe, I walk on, getting ever closer. Ghosts of memories rack my brain, sounding out and blending with the ruin before me to form new ones, all of Dwemer make. I have not been here, but I have been there... other ruins, other times. I see people, long and short, snide and amiable, but never do I see them clearly, glimpsing them for an instant before my heads shifts again. I am at peace, I am frantic, I am in awe.

And then it slows, and the Dwemer ruin comes back into focus, though a ruin no more. The rust has left its surface; its metal exterior glimmer brilliantly. I rest a hand on each knee to steady myself and make sense of this onslaught of confusion, but I don't get a chance to do so. For at the moment, I hear a voice; a voice so sweet, a voice so intriguing, a voice so... perfect.

"Nerevar?" The voice is a whip to my mind, a cushion to my soul. I spin around and there before me stands the speaker. She is a woman, with skin more golden and precious than the Dwemer's metal, softer and purer than the finest silks. Her face is thin but not gaunt, her lips plump and satiable, nose pert, ears long and sharp, her eyes wide and luscious green. Long golden hair plumes out from her head in dandelion-soft weaves to frame her beautiful body. "Nerevar?" she asks again, reaching up a slender hand to touch my face. "Are you alright, Nerevar?"

The world stops spinning, only to spin again in another sense. "I am fine, Alma," I assure her in a strong, steady voice; a sense of warmth, of peace, of bliss and of love as I have never known it flows over me. I smile as I take her in my arms - arms covered in skin, not scales. I lean closer, holding her tight. "How could I not be, when I have you here?"

She laughs lightly. "Oh, Nerevar." She shakes her head, hair bouncing over her shoulders. "Dumac awaits us. Should we not go to him?"

"Dumac can wait." I squeeze her gently. "For now, I wish to be with you." I kiss her on the forehead with lips, not a snout. "I love you, Alma."

"I love you, too," she replies, looking up. Instinctively, I lean down and press my lips to hers. The kiss lasts but a moment as she pushes away. "We should hurry," she insists.

"No, Alma. Let them wait," I plea, taking her hand. "Don't leave me..." No more is said. For in that instant, it all vanishes. Alma has gone as well, and only the Dwemer ruin stands before me, different and dead. I stand in shock, not comprehending. And then I see my hand.

The hand of a monster. Covered in scales, sporting long, gnarled black claws. I grip it with the other hand, but it is just the same. I feel teeth sharp as nails in my mouth, a tongue forked and thin. I feel no warmth in my body, only cold.

"Alma?" My voice is a serpent's hiss. I fall to the ground, racked with fear. "Alma? Alma? Alma?" I want to cry, but there are no tears. "Alma? Alma? Don't leave me... don't leave me... don't leave me, Alma... please..." Who am I? What am I? Where is she! "Alma, Alma, Alma, Alma, ALMA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

I am alone.


	6. Ruin

(A/N: To snackfiend101: Remember, the Altmer weren't always the only golden-skinned mer. To Andy W: Actually, I do intend to rewrite the plot. I never liked how impassively those who knew Nerevar treat his reincarnation.

I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thanks to those who reviewed.

Disclaimer: Still don't own Morrowind.)

* * *

**_Death's Kiss - Chapter Six - Ruin._**

**"A**aaaaalllmaaaaa..." My voice grows weak, but still I yell, in hopes that she will return. At last, I hear a voice... but it is not Alma's.

"I'll gut your belly, lizard!" a male voice threatens. It is then that I acknowledge the blade pressed up against my throat. Though my scales protect against immediate harm, it's a dangerous situation... but that's not what angers me. I let out a hiss, infuriated at this stranger's presence when I want _Alma._

I reach up behind me and grab the attacker by his shoulders, twisting them at the joints. He shrieks and tumbles back, his dagger falling harmlessly to the ground as I spin around and snarl. My would-be killer is a balding human in stained clothes. I had horrible leverage, so at the most his shoulders are sprained, but he whimpers nonetheless, eyes flickering in fear as I loom over him. I pant, head spinning as some sense comes back to me and I debate whether or not to kill him.

The man experiences a sudden change of heart, his sniveling look shifting into a victorious grin. Alas, he has given his partner away. I lash my tail, catching the second backstabber in the waist. "Ooof!" comes the surprised utter. A Dunmer woman this time, I see as I turn and sink my claws into her arms. She screams, but not for long, before I bite into her neck and tear out a great, red chunk of it. I let her fall, gaping and groaning in horror as she tenderly feels the blood oozing from her throat. The first man is reduced to sniveling once more as he makes a break for it. I leap out and slam him facedown in the hard ground with such force I hear his nosebones fracture. Rolling him over, I watch as his mashed nose leaks twin trails of blood, which pool in the seam between his quivering lips.

"Wait!" he pleads, tears joining the blood. "D-don't kill me... don't kill me..." Pathetic. He puts up little resistance as I grip the sides of his jawbone and yank his head around 360-degrees, efficiently snapping his neck.

Ironically, the sensation of killing has brought me back to my senses. Well, somewhat to my senses; the blood coating my mouth is driving me crazy with the urge to spill more. I lean against the Dwemer ruin, accidentally banging my head into the corroded metal surface as I try to calm myself down. I look at the two corpses splayed out in front of me. Thieves, common thieves using an old ruin for their base. If anything, I've helped Morrowind by cleansing it of these lowly outlaws. Sure, they might have been desperate for money, with families of their own... but that isn't my problem. They would have slain me or any other who unknowingly stepped on their land without a second thought, and I returned the favor.

Thieves are nothing strange. But that odd vision I had... with... Alma... Who is Alma? I wonder to myself, pushing away from the ruin and over toward the door. It's a round, rusty slice of metal, sealed shut. No amount of shoving or pulling will open it, I soon discover. Wait... the crank. I see it over there, on a pipe running out of the building. I grip it firmly, twist it around, and the door obediently pops open.

No time to dwell on the unnecessary, no matter how curious. I clamber through the revealed hole, stepping out onto another metal floor. Crouched down and ready to spring at the first sign of danger, I scent the air. Metal, rust, metal, metal, dust, dust, rust, metal... human.

The metal floor drops off steeply, shortly ahead. The human smell is coming from down there, and likely, the human it comes from means me harm as the others did. Fortunately, a series of large rocks conveniently connect like a ramp to provide a way down. It's a welcome architectural change from all this metal, I think as I walk over it. I soon discover that if this is really a ramp, it's the most asinine ramp ever built, rising and sloping and twisting and turning unnecessarily. Damned dwarves.

What must be halfway down it, I catch sight of the human, climbing up the rocks to meet me. Bald, like the one before him, but younger and darker. It's a shame when young blood must be spilt, but so it must be, as the dagger he holds is intended to meet with my stomach. I grab his dagger-wielding hand and snap the wrist back, avoid a sharp kick, go up and attempt to catch him by the neck. He evades; he's more skilled than the other two were. I try again, thrusting a hand toward his stomach, thinking to hook him by the insides and wrench upward. I succeed in grabbing him by the shirt, but he quickly slips out of it. This exposes his bare flesh; I strike quickly and rake my claws over his upper chest, leaving five deep slashes that will heal into thick scars if he lives.

He ignores the pain and snatches the dagger out of his broken hand, striking my left shoulder. Hitting his mark, he sinks the blade in as deep as it will go and twists. It hurts, but I'm no stranger to pain. I yank it out along with a chunk of my own flesh, disregarding the searing pain as I fling the dagger away. The human is hunched over, wracked with pain, and skilled as he is, is far from my equal. It won't take much more to bring him down, especially with his only weapon gone. My bloodlust begins to fade. For the first time in many years, I feel sorry for my opponent while he's still alive.

"If you give me the puzzle box," I tell him with some amount of pity, "I'll let you live." His reply is an infuriated scream as he charges forward, as though offended by my sympathy. I shrug and clamp my mouth down on his throat. With a surprised cry, he squeezes me by my throat and tries to pull me off. By the time he succeeds, my poison is already coursing through his system. He gurgles, confused, then falls to the ground and spasms. The poison would surely have killed him, but he falls off the ramp to his death first. I stand, watching, and listen to the echoing crunch as he hits the ground. Ignoring my bleeding shoulder, I continue on down the ramp. He wouldn't have had the Dwemer puzzle box, anyway.

By the time I'm attacked a fourth time - this time by a pale young man with a head of curly hair - the bloodlust is entirely gone from me. Strange, this; normally I can hardly restrain myself from indulging in the kill, but now all I can bear to do is break his jaw and toss him off the ramp. "Nerevar", the name by which Alma called me, rings in my head as I watch the man flail and fall to his doom. Sadly, this pacific state does not last for long. Before long, my bloodlust has returned stronger than ever, and I'm barely aware of shoving a man's head into his own split, oozing innards while tearing at another's face with my fangs. I don't know how long this killing spree goes on, but when at last I return to my senses, I am on a solid metal floor surrounded by a maze of tunnels, a trail of human and elven bodies laid out behind me. I hadn't expected so many thieves. No matter. They're all dead now, their ill-gotten loot ripe for the picking, though no part of me is interested in pilfering.

"Why did you do this?" I ask myself, quickly replying, "They would have killed me.

"No, not all of them. Remember?" Yes. I remember the ones that hid in the corners and begged for mercy. "You're a monster.

"I know." I peel a patch of human flesh off my face and throw it to the ground. "I _know._"

And I'm sorry, Alma, whoever you are. I truly am.

"HYAAAAAAAAAAHH!" screams the fool, coming at me from behind with a hatchet. I grit my teeth, swing around and grab him by the neck, sinking my claws into his vulnerable throat until he drops the axe in shock.

"Give me the puzzle box and I'll go!" I snap, shaking him roughly. "DON'T TEST ME!" I drop him. Several shades paler than when he attacked, he nods dumbly and scrambles off. Not long after, he comes scurrying back, hands cupped together and knees wobbling. Setting in the platform of his united palms is a small golden box made of many smaller boxes, decorated with circular designs and odd symbols on one side, lined marks on the other.

"Thisss is the puzzle box?" I query, a mix of leftover blood, saliva and poison slopping from my mouth. He nods frantically. I doubt he is lying. "Good," I say gruffly, snatching it from him. "Now go!" Off he runs into the ruin's labyrinth, his footfalls, sobs and screams lingering long after he is gone from sight. My eyes sweep my surroundings again. Tens of corpses, some strung up by their intestines, others flayed on the floor, others still with broken heads cradled in their arms. My own head bowed, I follow the trail of gore back through the series of rusty tunnels, back to the ramp. I cast the massacre a final look as I reach the door out, breathe in sharply.

"Caius was right," I say to myself. "This was dirty." I climb back through and slam the round metal door shut behind me with a resounding _clank_.

* * *

Hasphat is so pleased to get his puzzle box he barely notices the bloodstains. 

"You got it!" he marvels, turning it over and over in his fleshy pink hands. I jerk my gaze away and force myself not to think about the blood beneath them. "I can't believe it... such detail... such age... such mystery..."

"Sssuch payment," I remind him, looking at a watermark on the ceiling.

"Ah, of course." He continues to look the box over as he speaks. "The Ashlanders believe a reborn Nerevar will unite the Dunmer against the outlander invaders and restore the ancient Dark Elven nation. Nerevar is a legendary hero and saint of the Temple, but the Temple denies the prophecy, and persecutes heretics who believe in the Nerevarine. Tell Caius that Sharn gra-Muzgob would be a better person to ask about the native faiths and superstitions."

"Nerevar..." I repeat the name slowly, eyes widening in realization. _Nerevar._ The name Alma called me by!

"Yes, Nerevar," Hasphat affirms, holding out a neatly rolled-up sheaf of paper. "Don't worry, I don't expect you to remember it all. I have it all written down for you to take back to your master." Ignoring the degrading assumption, I snatch the sheaf away and twist what would have been a snarl into a smile.

"Of course," I say. "Better luck pronouncing Dwemer names in the future." He pretends not to hear me, but I know he does.

So much to think about, so much to wonder about. Was the vision a product of my demented mind? Or is there something more to it? Could it be related to my strange new dreams? Why am I researching the very name Alma called me by - and who is Alma, anyway? Hasphat said Nerevar is a legendary hero... and what was this of Nerevar reborn? So many questions...

I make it back to Caius's house and knock on the door. It opens almost immediately, and there before me stands Caius, old and shirtless as ever.

"Did you get the information?" he asks.

"Yes," I respond, dropping the sheaf of paper in his hand. He unfurls it and reads it.

"Not much we didn't already know," he grumbles, rolling the paper back up.

"We?" I prod.

"Yes, you and I," he covers quickly, tossing the paper into the mess behind him (this man is no housekeeper). I eye him suspiciously, but say nothing.

"Go get some sleep, Serpent," he yawns, moving to close the door. "It's late." True, it is late. I spent more time in that ruin than I thought.

"But what about my orders?" I demand.

"You want orders? I order you to find an inn and go to sleep!" He shuts the door. With a foul-tempered hiss, I turn and skulk away.

The sky is dark, and the people that have houses are in them, oblivious to those who must shelter in alleys. One homeless wood elf is so still that I cannot determine whether she is sleeping or dead. No one is watching; I take this opportunity to change out of this small, marshy robe into one of the new robes I keep in my pack. It's made of itchy fiber that would irritate human or elven skin, but has no ill effect on my scales. It's larger and looser on me than the first, reaching to my ankles. My tail beats impatiently beneath the cloth, so I tear a hole in the back and slip it through. That done, I continue my midnight walk.

The city sleeps, and I should be sleeping too. A part of me is loathe to slumber, fearful of what dreams sleep may bring. Another part of me is curious, ravenous to sample more dreams. _Perhaps Alma will be in them..._

I would not rest in a dank alley, and I'm not personable enough to get a room at the nearest inn. I examine a stout, blocky house before me, then look around. No guards in sight (not that I couldn't handle any if there were). I latch onto the gutter and swing myself up. The roof is flat and hard. I lie down and watch the star-filled sky, the moons hanging ripe. It is not long before I am asleep again...


End file.
